C’est un brouillon

I type this in the F terminal at ATL, about two hours before my plane is supposed to start boarding. This is my first time at this airport alone. A few hours ago was my first plane ride alone. Around noon was my first purchase of weakly-spiced orange chicken in an airport cafeteria alone. Lot of firsts.

Most of my comrades in F are either white college girls (leggings, sweatshirts, smart shoes) or very old and very confused non-Americans. The only thing they are confused about, however, is the price of food and drink, which also throws me off. They do not seem confused about anything else. The college girls have all been here longer than I have. I suppose that they have always been here, and will never leave.

In any case, I am getting the distinct vibe that I am the only person here who is just a little bit freaking out.

Did I pack enough? Did I pack too much? Do they carry Ibuprofen in French stores? Is the little German kid staring at me from the neck pillow store planning to steal my passport? Why are none of these people nervous about going to a country that generally does not speak the language spoken in this airport? Do they all already know French? Do I even really know French? And, most crucially,

Should I have spent longer saying goodbye to my cat?

To de-stress from these and other worries, I took a walk down the causeway between terminals A and B, which is my favorite place in any airport. ATL has a whole rainforest down there, with fireflies and pools of digital water. I go down there every time I’m here.

The plan as a whole to board an overnight to Paris, wake up, get on another plane to Marseille, and then wait for my “dynamic, talkative, non-English speaking” host parent to retrieve me. I expect that I will probably collapse into her arms, or just collapse on the ground. One of the two.

Well, I miss my friends, I miss my family, and i miss Amigo’s Mexican Restaurant in Jonesborough. I can state these things simply despite having a complex experience reacting to them. These things will get worse before they improve, but they will improve. I will become fluent in my target language and capable in my target skills. Yves Pons did this without any help and he had to play basketball on top of it all, so I can, too.

Cordialement,

Allison

P.S.: In Knoxville, they call me Granny, and in Limestone, they call me Bo. I wonder who I will be in Aix?